


it is my poor heart that fails me so

by sunny_jordy



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Whumptober 2020, oscar wilde desreves better I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26936281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunny_jordy/pseuds/sunny_jordy
Summary: In a world where trust is so fragile, Oscar decides to go with his heart.It doesn't go well.
Relationships: Oscar Wilde/Original Male Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	it is my poor heart that fails me so

**Author's Note:**

> Very excited as this is my first rgg fic!! May I be blessed with many more ideas on how to hurt my favorite characters.  
> Anyways, this is set between S3 and S4. See if you can guess what I wrote of before it comes.  
> Massive thanks to the When In Rome server who sprinted with me through this in less then a day, I love you guys

Oscar’s been hesitant about the letter from the beginning. 

With the blue veins around for just a few weeks, no one really knows yet how to deal with the loss of certainty. It’s hard to find the places to hide in, the people who you can trust with your life. Wilde is currently hiding by his own, waiting for a response from the Harlequins while he hides in a small abandoned shack at the edge of an almost empty village. He can’t tell why exactly most of the people are gone, but… he has his suspicions. None of them are very positive.

(If he’s honest, Oscar can’t even tell you where he currently is, geographically. He’s been running for the past month, so hastily that he didn’t even once stop to wonder where he’s going.) 

So when a letter appeared on the doorstep of the shack, only a few days after he settled in, of course he was suspicious. It looked simple - white paper, black ink, his name in clear, sharp letters.

Oscar’s too smart not to suspect something like this. Of course he is. He’s seen enough.

But… He’d know Tony’s handwriting anywhere.

Tony. Anthony. A close friend from Oxford, and also one name in the list of Wilde’s unrequited crushes and loves. They’ve stayed in touch for a long time, years, really, but… the adventurous life of working for the Meritocrats did sever the link a bit. Still, Oscar never forgot, always kept their connection close to his heart. And to receive this letter to think that Tony just happened to find refuge in the same place as he did, that Oscar might have a friend with him to go through this terrifying reality... 

The letter itself just mentioned a time and a place - Sunday at noon in the town square. It gave Wilde no name, just three days to make a decision. Three days to decide if it’s a trick, or a man who Wilde didn’t see in over two years, and longed with his whole heart to meet again.

Oscar knows it’s stupid. Almost definitely a trap, and he’s making a mistake by even considering. 

He goes.

___________

He’s running, hand pressed against his side, ragged breathes escaping his lips as the freezing wind slashes his cheeks. Wilde’s dashing between the ghost wooden houses, gray and empty from helping hands, and does his best not to slip against the remnants of snow which adorn the road as mocking feathers to fail him.  _ Idiot, idiot, idiot! _

Oscar should’ve known. He should’ve known that Tony can’t track him that easily, even if he was around. At least, not the Tony he knew.  _ How could I be such a fool? _

He hears boots hit against polished stone behind him, just a few meters away. “Oscar! Wait! But we were just starting to catch up!”

Tears rise in his eyes, but Oscar just bites his lip and keeps running fiercely forward.  _ No matter what he says, no matter how much he sounds like himself, you have to outrun him. Do you understand, Wilde? The veins took him, and there is nothing you can do to save him now. So just stay. The fuck. Alive. _

Wilde picks a look at his side, but all his eyes meet is crimson blood drawn by Anthony’s dagger, and so he focuses his gaze back on the road. Gods, how he wishes he had his magic by his side right now, instead of the heavy shackles which grind every single second against his feet as he flees away. He could’ve healed himself, throw the blue veins off track with an intricate illusion. But the world was cruel to Oscar long before it fell into this madness, and he has learned to make do without his songs.  _ I just hope my other skills will be enough for this. _

A hand grabs his arm and pulls him back abruptly, throwing Oscar on his back against the cold pavement of the road. He lets out a stifled groan, propping himself on one hand as he struggles to get back up before the next blow hits.

No luck there. A harsh kick to his wounded torso knocks him back down, and his head hits the ground, his vision blurring out for a moment. When it stabilizes he can see he spit a few drops of blood, which now stand stark and screaming against the snow. 

_ Think think think think! _

With a grunt, Wilde thrusts his shoulder forwards and rolls away on the ground, ignoring the warning pains his ripped tissue sends up his ribs. There’s no time for pain, no time for regrets.

If he can’t run, he has to fight.

Slowly, painfully, Oscar rises up, already sending his hand to the shortsword attached tightly to his hip.

Then, he turns back to face Anthony.

The man whom he once called friend stands in the middle of the road, waiting. He dropped the pretense of being a person; the mahogany eyes which Wilde once described as “warm as the sun” in a poem now stare at him blankly, absent of feeling. He hasn’t let go of the dagger with which he stabbed Wilde before, which is still covered by the crimson liquid that drips off the edge and taps like slow rain on the stone.  _ Does he even know who I am? Does the sickness recognize me as anything but a name and a face? How much of him is left inside, and how much it is just the veins speaking to me now? _

“Don’t run away, Oscar.” The words slip out of pale lips in a cold whisper. “I missed you so much.”

Oscar throws his head back and lets out a humorless laugh. “You can drop the act already. I’ve seen high school students give a more convincing performance. You want me to fight?” He cocks his head to the side. “Fine. Let’s fight.”

Tony lunges at him, daggers in both hands, and Wilde lets him approach up to the last second, sliding aside and letting Anthony stumble forwards with the force of his own movement. Oscar spins in place, slashing in a wide swing of the blade, but Tony already got back on his feet, and now he’s aiming again with his bloody steele at Wilde’s already wounded side, only to be met with his opponent’s sword. 

This type of exchange continues for long seconds, blades kissing blades as the two men dance around one another. They both search the other man, attempting to pierce through that one weak spot that will gain them victory. Wilde has known Anthony’s movements for years, and so it’s hard for his friend’s attempts to surprise him; but it seems that the veins know Oscar well enough too, as he doesn’t manage to rid himself from this betrayal of Tony’s memory. And so they keep on their deadly waltz, spinning feet and leaning bodies thrusting forwards and backwards, grazing one another but never truly touching. 

It happens in a moment, so quick and yet so crucial. Wilde swings the sword with his two hands, aiming for the waist, and so he has no way to block the dagger that slashes his already bleeding side, making Oscar yelp in pain as he stumbles aside and lets loose of the sword. It clunks on the stone,  _ one two three _ , and rolls to rest on the snow. 

Oscar lunges for his weapon, but it’s much too late. That moment of helplessness is all Tony needs to stab him again, which is enough to knock Wilde down, and he falls to his knees, coughing up blood again. Exactly one more calculated blow to his side is all that’s needed to make him fall away on his side.

Wilde groans, trying to stabilize, trying to regain clear vision,  _ trying _ to reach for his sword, his chest rising and falling quickly and his mind rushing, but there’s no point. A heavy knee lands on his abdomen harshly and Oscar can’t help but scream, the agony tearing involuntarily from his throat and flying to the empty air where no one hears or cares.  _ I’m done. I’m done. Dead because of my own foolish heart. _

“Just get on with it already,” Wilde mumbles under his breaths, not looking at the man who holds him down. Instead, he stares at the gray sky, the blue covered by the remnants of yesterday's storm.  _ At least I get to look up one last time. _

But the sickness won’t let him the grace in a quick death, apparently. Because instead of piercing his heart, he finds that the frozen blade is lying still on his throat, the tip just a flick of the hand away from puncturing his throat. 

“Well. What to do with you, Oscar? We know much of you, but not enough.” Anthony speaks above him, and as he does the blade taps slowly against his skin, making Oscar swallow hard, tasting his own blood against his lips. “We wonder if you are more useful dead or with us. What do you think?”

Oscar doesn’t answer - he doesn't dare give whatever it is the pleasure in humliting him like that. He would not disgrace both himself and Tony’s memory in playing along with whatever they are trying to achieve. He keeps on staring above, his breathing slowly evening itself, and gives a silent prayer to whoever who may be listening that he’d at least be allowed the mercy of dying as himself, not turning to a twisted version of the man the world knows as Oscar Wilde. 

In a flash, the blade moves away from his throat and slashes his cheek, going in a wobbly line from the bone through the edge of his lip, and Oscar winces, closing his eyes shut for a moment. “Oscar, we want your input.” The sickness says.  _ Not Anthony. Never Anthony, it was never him.  _ “You know best. What should we do?”

_ Don’t answer. Don’t. _

The man above Wilde sighs. “We guess we should have you. Just give us a second to pass ourselves onto you.”

Oscar hears ruffling above him, like clothes being removed or something pulled out of many layers of cloth.  _ What is it doing? How do they infect people?  _ He tries so hard to keep his breath steady, to avoid giving away how utterly terrified he is, but the way his lips quiver probably already gave him away. His mouth keeps on tasting blood as the fresh cut in his face keeps on bleeding, the liquid trickling down his chin and gathering as a small pool in the small socket between his collarbone and throat. 

He has nowhere to go.

Oscar looks up to the sky for the last time.

Above him, a starling passes through the sky, riding on the wind.

_ I can’t die here. _

His heart beating hard in his ears, Wilde looks with renewed hope around. Seeing the bird reminded him that he is still alive, and as long as the veins haven’t passed themselves onto him, Oscar has time to save himself. He just has to be creative.

No magic. No weapon. No power in his arms.

_ Well, if you don’t have something... make it. _

Slowly, quietly, Wilde lets his fingers explore the ground. It’s just large slate stones and snow, but he knows there must be something he can fit in his hand. There has to be.

His hand meets a small stone, the size of a golf ball, maybe. If he aimes well enough…

In one swift motion, Oscar grabs the stone and throws it at the veins which hold him down, hitting the body they stole with harsh power against their chin and throwing their head flying backward. They fall on their back, on Oscar’s legs, but their hold on him has vanished, and it all he needs to crawl away on his legs and knees and grab his sword back.

The sickness tries to get back up, but Wilde is already there, waiting on his knees, pushing it back down with his free hand.

“You want me?” Oscar raises an eyebrow and looks down, now his own knee holding the man down. “Try harder next time.”

His sword falls down and pierces right through the heart, and the veins stop moving.

Oscar lets out a shallow breath as he pulls the sword away, his whole body shaking in place.  _ Don’t grieve now. You’re wounded. Get better first, cry later. _

With great effort, Wilde forces himself back up on his feet. His legs are wobbly, but he has enough confidence he can make it back to the small house. It’s not like he has much choice anyways.

He starts walking, but stops in his tracks to give one last look back at the body of his friend. His golden hair is spread around his head in a small aura, and those deep brown eyes now stare up empty. Nothing was left there anyways, but still, seeing him lying there…

Wilde’s eyes shift their focus to Tony’s throat, where the blue veins spread above the collar of his shirt and revealed his true new identity.  _ You didn’t kill him, Oscar. He was long dead. All you’ve done is rid him from this disgrace. _

Oscar resumes his walking, his steps echoing so clearly through the ghost town, leaving two trails of blood behind him to mark the snow for nature’s eyes alone.

___________

He’s standing in front of a dusty mirror, staring back at his own clouded reflection. Oscar might have got to this point because of a foolish whim of the heart, but he was generally smart, so of course he had a medical kit on hand. It didn’t do as good as his magic, but… Well, he has to manage with what he has. He’s already sewn and bandaged the wound at his waist - he’ll have to check on the wound everyday, make sure the stitches stay in place and that no infection is developing, and rest for a long while to make sure the internal damage has time to heal itself. 

The cut in his face, though… a bit of a bigger issue.

The wound isn’t deep, and it barely did any damage. It’s barely bleeding now, too; all that’s left is a slow trickle of blood that Wilde’s green shirt soaked up.  _ Well, that goes in the trash. _ He examines the thin line for the tenth time in the last two minutes, following with his eyes the scarlet thread that goes from his cheekbone down and turns to the corner of his lips. No, the problem is not the physical damage.

Oscar tries to smile at his reflection, but the smile is distorted by the wound - the ruined skin and muscles can’t pull exactly as they did before, and all he sees is a pale face with weary eyes failing in pretending to be fine.

He didn’t even notice he was crying until he tasted salt in his mouth.

Oscar’s shoulders start to shake, then his chest, and soon enough he finds himself completely sobbing, grieving over the loss of Anthony and the world he knew and the hope that trust can still exist in this ruined reality.

And as he stands there, watching himself breaking apart, the blood and tears mixing into a proof of his pain, Oscar swears to never trust his heart again.


End file.
